but passing, trailed long shadows on the
ground, black like despair. Again the mode was changed; Peiwoh sang of
war, of clashing steel and trampling steeds. And in the harp arose
the tempest of Lungmen, the dragon rode the lightning, the thundering
avalanche crashed through the hills. In ecstasy the Celestial monarch
asked Peiwoh wherein lay the secret of his victory. "Sire," he replied,
"others have failed because they sang but of themselves. I left the harp
to choose its theme, and knew not truly whether the harp had been Peiwoh
or Peiwoh were the harp."

This story well illustrates the mystery of art appreciation. The
masterpiece is a symphony played upon our finest feelings. True art is
Peiwoh, and we the harp of Lungmen. At the magic touch of the beautiful
the secret chords of our being are awakened, we vibrate and thrill in
response to its call. Mind speaks to mind. We listen to the unspoken,
we gaze upon the unseen. The master calls forth notes we know not of.
Memories long forgotten all come back to us with a new significance.
Hopes stifled by fear, yearnings that we dare not recognise, stand forth
in new glory. Our mind is the canvas on which the artists lay their
colour; their pigments are our emotions; their chiaroscuro the light of
joy, the shadow of sadness. The masterpiece is of ourselves, as we are
of the masterpiece.

The sympathetic communion of minds necessary for art appreciation must
be based on mutual concession. The spectator must cultivate the proper
attitude for receiving the message, as the artist must know how to
impart it. The tea-master, Kobori-Enshiu, himself a daimyo, has left
to us these memorable words: "Approach a great painting as thou wouldst
approach a great prince." In order to understand a masterpiece, you
must lay yourself low before it and await with bated breath its least
utterance. An eminent Sung critic once made a charming confession. Said
he: "In my young days I praised the master whose pictures I liked, but
as my judgement matured I praised myself for liking what the masters had
chosen to have me like." It is to be deplored that so few of us really
take pains to study the moods of the masters. In our stubborn ignorance
we refuse to render them this simple courtesy, and thus often miss the
rich repast of beauty spread before our very eyes. A master has always
something to offer, while we go hungry solely because of our own lack of
appreciation.

To the sympathetic a maste